


Clockwork

by galadrieljones



Series: The Dead Season Universe [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arlathan, Canon Divergent, Clocks, Developing Relationship, Emotional Backstory, F/M, Older Woman/Younger Man, Prequel, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, The Great War, The Past, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 08:04:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10080623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galadrieljones/pseuds/galadrieljones
Summary: This is a Solas and Mythal one-off that takes place during the very beginning of their relationship in the time of the Great War. In this story, Solas is 23 and Mythal is 30. He is her General, advisor, and as of the night before, her lover as well.This is set in the universe of my Solavellan ficThe Dead Season.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Viking_woman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viking_woman/gifts), [Vesania94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vesania94/gifts), [DoingHerBest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoingHerBest/gifts).



Mythal had been standing over by the bed when he got to her chambers. It was not an invitation. She looked nervous. Bird bones. Her brown hair straight and discarded from the evening. She was holding a heavy, wooden clock from the mantle, still in her gown from the party, this black, shimmery thing that spread out at the bottom like a fin. Solas knew intuitively that she was supposed to be some picture of fashion, but to him, she looked like a sea creature, barefoot, small and a piece of nature. He’d seen her without her make-up, and it had been that way for years, and this changes things between a man and a woman, even if they are not sleeping together. 

That night, they'd held a dinner party provided by Elgar'nan. It was supposed to be an apology for the day before, when he'd tried to garotte Solas in the parlor for not giving him rights to their territory in the Backwater by the sea. Of course, it was all bullshit, because what wasn't? And so Mythal, of course, had consented to the dinner, even though Elgar'nan insisted on bringing his own servants, and this, to her, was disgusting manners and just further indication of his savagery. Solas, like Mythal, was still dressed up from the affair—gray tux, silken, silver lining, and a tie to match. He was a dashing piece of work, and at dinner, he'd been on his best behavior. He only told Elgar'nan to fuck off once, but it had been in the company of gentlemen, and the two of them laughed, elbow to elbow as Elgar'nan lit Solas's cigar, and Solas smirked past him, finding Mythal through a cloud of white smoke, a masterful display. She hated this part of men and every part of them after, but she also knew what had to be done to reason with a brute like Elgar'nan. Solas and his masculine rapports. He knew how to deal with men, and this, she realized at some point, was exactly why she needed him.

Once he got back to the room that night, smelling of whiskey and cigar smoke, he pulled the door shut, loudly, so that she looked at him.

“Solas,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said, loosening his tie. “What’s the matter?”

“I didn't know you'd back so soon. I thought you’d be out or something.”

He just raised his eyebrows, waiting. 

So she sighed, looked down at the pretty little machine in her hand. "This is my father's," she said.

He dropped the tie, in a pile down on the floor beside her shoes. They had feathers on them. These things. They were mysteries. He understood _her._ As a woman. But all of her things. Her dresses and high heels and her fake eye lashes. These were mysteries. “The clock?” he said.

“Yes,” said Mythal. “It’s stopped working for some reason. Just now. I don't understand.”

“Let me see.”

“Solas, it's fine. I don't need you to do anything. I was just saying.”

He was standing right in front of her now, collar loose. He put his hands in his pockets. “Do you know anything about clocks, Mythal?” he said.

“No,” she said. “But I suppose you do."

“When I was very little, my father was a clockmaker,” he said. “It was a side gig. People would bring him their broken clocks and watches, and he would fix them on the weekends when he was not working in Arlathan. I would stand by his side, and whenever one of the little pieces—a cog or gear—would roll off and fall to the floor, I would find it for him. I have very good eyesight.”

“I know about your eyesight,” she said. “But I didn’t know your father was a clockmaker. I thought he was just an architect.”

“For him, it was all the same thing.” Solas went to her. He took his hands out of his pockets, hesitant. She was still not used to him. It was tough to grapple with. “May I see the broken clock?”

“You don't have to fix it, Solas.”

“I know, Mythal," he said, losing his patience. "I am offering. Perhaps, at some point, you’ll learn to recognize the difference. Until then, you are going to have to trust me.”

She studied him. He towered over her, had her by nearly a foot. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. She handed him the clock. Their hands touched. It was small but made of molten energy. She became anxious for him, over him. His shirt all rumpled and half-untucked. That was just him. He went to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. Inside, he kept a great many tools, stuff he used to repair odds and ends—a loose doorknob, a wobbly leg on the armoire. He liked to do these sorts of things himself. This was the way that his mother had raised him. He did not like to rely on other people when it came to repairing and tending to his environment. He did not like magic, not for this. Magic could decay. If you fix a clock with magic, it is only a matter of time before it breaks again, in the exact same way it had broken in the first place. 

He held a small leather case inside of which were stored many small screwdrivers and a pair of pliers. He took that and the clock and he sat down at the table by the window. She followed him.

He lit a lantern on the sill with a very bright flame. But it was small, concentrated. She’d never seen fire like that. She sat down across from him. Her arms were bare, and she was a little cold. She saw him notice. He reached and adjusted the lantern then pulled the window shut with one hand.

“What’s wrong with it?” she said about the clock.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said, examining its seams, the delicate, titanium hands. “It probably just needs a new battery.”

“Battery?”

He smirked. “Your whole life really has been a product of magical interference, hasn’t it, Mythal?”

“More so than yours,” she said. “Then again, your life is extraordinary.”

“Spare me your rich girl's lament,” he said. “Hand me that screwdriver. The little one, with the green handle.”

She obeyed, silently. He used it to remove the clock’s back panel. Inside, there were all of these marvels in metal and wood, all perfectly still. He set the clock down at the table. He studied its pieces, and then he used a pair of pliers to remove a strange metal disk, rose gold, from the center.

“Is that its heart?” said Mythal. “Is that the battery?”

“Yes,” he said. “I will send for a new one and replace it for you tomorrow.”

"Thank you, Solas."

"It is no problem."

“You know there are people I used to hire for things like this,” said Mythal, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Yes, and once upon a time, one of those people was my father.”

“You are a General,” she said. “Not a clockmaker, Solas.”

He set down the clock, and then he set down the pliers and the battery with it. “I know what I am,” he said.

“Do you?”

He leaned back in the chair. He was agitated now, coming loose. He snuck a joint from his pocket and lit it with a butterfly. The butterfly was so fast, it flitted in and out of existence so that she almost didn’t see it at all. "Nevermind,” he said.

"Nevermind?"

He inhaled, put his head back, puffed the smoke out in careful rings. He only did this when he was bored, or annoyed, or putting on a show. He dropped his chin back to his chest, and he looked at her. So knowing. Too much confidence, she thought. And yet. “Yes. Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I don't know what I am. Would you like to talk about what happened?”

"Last night?" she said.

"Yes." He smoked.

She straightened up. She looked away. He did not offer her his drugs this time. “I suppose we should,” she said.

“I, personally, would like for it to continue," he said. "But I have no idea what you want. I am trying desperately to read your mind, but I can’t do everything on my own. Obviously.”

“I am aware of that."

“Do you regret it?” he said.

“No,” she said. She was earnest as she looked at him. “I don’t regret it. Not at all.”

“Then what’s the matter?” he said. “You’ll still hardly let me touch you. I understand why we can’t touch in public. That would be a disaster. But we’re alone now. Talk to me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, wringing her hands. “It’s habit. When you touch me, I know I am going to lose control. I do not like to lose control, Solas."

“Would you like control?”

“No,” she said.

“Then what would you like?”

“Your permission,” she said.

"My permission?"

"I don't know. For once, I'm having a terrible time articulating what I want. I want you, but I don't feel like I deserve you."

He leaned forward, staring at her through a cloud of white smoke, resting his elbows on the table. He was serious, his focus locked in place. “This is about the vallaslin.”

She looked away.

“Then show me how to get rid of it,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I can’t,” she said. “Not yet, Solas. You’re very strong, but in numbers, the other evanuris would take you, easily. You're an asset. You still need my protection.”

He nodded, seeming casual at first, but then he took the clock from the table and set it delicately on the floor beneath his chair. Once he did this, he stood, looked right at her, and then he picked up that table and flipped it over, upside-down on its face. The screw drivers and the pliers, they flew. She was alarmed, but she hardly flinched. She'd known this sort of thing would happen.

"You've proven your point," she said.

“Make a choice,” he said.

She shook her head, said nothing.

“Choose,” he said, the joint hitched to the corner of his mouth. He took a long drag and then he blew the smoke into the air between them, and then he flicked the joint to the floor.

”What choice am I making?"

“I don’t know, Mythal,” he said. “Anything. Stand up. Come here. Let me take off your dress. Trust me. Give me something. I thought what happened—didn’t it mean something to you? It meant something to me. If it didn’t mean anything to you, then fine, ask me to leave. But if you do that, then do not invite me back here again.”

“You want to take off my dress?” she said.

“Of course I do,” he said. “Every man that was at that party tonight wants to take of your dress.”

“But _you_ thought about it. You're thinking about it now, taking off my dress?"

He rolled his eyes and sighed, profoundly. It almost turned into a kind of growl in the end. He turned around, and he took off his jacket, and he tossed it to the chair, and he leaned against that chair with his back to her, and he shook his head. He was frustrated. This almost amused her.

So she got up. She went around in front of him and picked up his face in her hands. She could see the surprise. He was caught completely off-guard. With Solas, this was hard to do, and so she was oddly proud of herself. “I'm just not used to this," she said. "That's all. I'm sorry. I'm working on it."

“Not used to what,” he said.

“Trusting men.”

“I know you think that,” he said. “But you trust men every day. You trust me with your life, to protect you in fields of violence, every day, Mythal, and you have for four years. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. Tell me what you don’t want, and I’ll abstain. Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. Tell me to keep going, and I’ll keep going. Tell me to leave, and I’ll leave. I am not a savage, and I know that you know that. Am I wrong?"

“No,” she said.

He took her by the wrists and removed her little hands from his face. He shook his head. “Are you going to let me do it or not?” he said.

“Do what?” she said.

“Take off your dress. Yes, I want to. Yes, I've been thinking about it. Since the moment you put it on, I've been thinking about it. And as for permission. You have my permission, Mythal. Do what you want with me. _To_ me. This is not duty. For once, this is a choice that we have made.”

She gathered herself. He could be such a shit sometimes. She wanted to punch him, and she wanted him to flip her upside down and fuck her into rags against the window. “Where did you learn to talk like that?” she said.

“Like what.”

“So good. Such authority.”

He smirked, but he was still tense. “Isn’t that what you want?” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Be with me,” he said. He dropped her wrists, and he put his hands back in his pockets. It was her move. She watched him with a great deal of conviction. He was right on the edge, sort of spilling over, into her, and it was new, because she was used to him in these violent or unflinching situations. Earning his discipline. A man of willpower. But here, like this, this was different. He was just a man, cute and untucked with his hands in his pockets, and he was waiting for her. And waiting. And waiting.

 

She was just having a hard time crossing the threshold, is all. The threshold into Solas. No matter the context, that is not a man you take lightly. That is not a man you let in unless you understand exactly how quickly it is that he plans to consume you. And how many years will go by before you look up, and you realize that you’re all gone, and there is nothing left but a faint yet definitive need that cannot be filled. Because he has moved on, and you are but a whisper of that woman from before, that woman in a black dress that he had once wanted so badly, that younger woman, that woman with power and grace, that woman who, in all of her need and starvation, had finally smiled and told him  _yes, take off my dress,_ and he obliged in the cool light from the candles, and together, you began your reign. You are not that woman. Not anymore. You have fallen from your grace, and now you must watch as his days and nights pass without you, and it does not matter that you died or that for many years, you were the one. You were the one who held his gloves by the mantle and welcomed him home at the end of the day.

A broken clock does not stop the time. Mythal knew this. And even if it did, she also knew that Solas, being who he was, would find some way to fix it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Viking_woman for the following tumblr prompt that inspired this piece: "For Solas & Mythal: In her stronghold, Solas fixing something, with his hands. Like a picture frame or a table or something else. Being all charming about it, of course, while Mythal tells him he doesn't have to."
> 
> <3


End file.
